


Uninvited

by bea_bickerknife



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Backstory™, F/F, Highly symbolic grammar, Literally the least appropriate wedding present, Monologuing (both villainous and noble), References to past infidelity, Revelations! at the Wedding Reception, You've heard of Panic! at the Disco, now get ready for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 00:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15206606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_bickerknife/pseuds/bea_bickerknife
Summary: At an actress' wedding reception, drama takes the form of an unexpected guest.





	Uninvited

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, I own none of the characters in this work, nor do I derive any remuneration from its posting.

“That’s really quite a lovely dress.”

For once in their long and contentious history – the word “contentious” here means “complicated, combative, and comprehensively cutthroat” – Esmé means exactly what she says. The gown is a confection in cream, from the simple bâteau neckline to the neat row of pearls running down the back to the airy layers of lace that whisper delicately against the balcony’s marble floor as a gentle breeze rustles the skirt. Sunset has begun to tint the odd, square peaks of the Mortmain Mountains in oranges and pinks, and when the woman looking out at them turns to face her, Esmé can’t help but notice that some of the evening’s glow seems to be trapped in the loose tendrils of her hair.

“What are _you_ doing here?” demands Beatrice.

“Oh, the same as you, I’d expect.” Esmé saunters toward her – not that there’s much of a point in sauntering, given that the other woman has both literally and figuratively turned her back on her. “Stepping out for a breath of fresh air. Escaping the frankly _fathomless_ tedium of your so-called guests.” Casually, she leans against the parapet, letting her gaze settle on Beatrice’s bare shoulders. “Admiring the view. That sort of thing.”

“You weren’t invited.”

“What an absolutely _fascinating_ use of the passive voice.”

Beatrice scoffs. “Since when do you know anything about the passive voice?”

“Since Josephine Anwhistle just finished thrilling me with one of her lectures on the subject. Apparently it’s quite a useful rhetorical device, particularly when one feels like deflecting blame.” She shifts closer. “Or creating the illusion of distance.”

It’s the second blatant come-on in as many minutes, and Beatrice rolls her eyes. “All right, then. _I_ didn’t invite you.”

“Afraid I’d outshine you at your own wedding?” With a dramatic wave of her hand, Esmé indicates the outfit she’s chosen for the reception. Androgyny is _in_ , but although she’s slicked her hair back into a sleek crop, she’s also left the jacket of her impeccably tailored cherry-red suit open far enough to reveal what she euphemistically refers to as her feminine side, not to mention a generous eyeful of her lingerie designer’s most impressive work. “Entirely understandable, of course, but as you can see, I dressed down for the occasion.”

Resolutely, Beatrice stares out over the mountains. “Your sartorial decisions don’t concern me nearly as much as your ethical ones, Esmé. The clothes don’t make the woman. The nobility of her character does.”

“And yet, what’s this?” One long, red fingernail traces the edge a scallop of lace where it lies against the skin of Beatrice’s upper arm. The touch is enough to startle her into eye contact for the first time that evening, and Esmé offers her a sardonic smile. “Ah, yes. Couture.”

“No one ever said looking good and _doing_ good were mutually exclusive, even if you only ever seem to be capable of one.” The retort sounds appropriately cutting in her head; when it leaves her mouth, however, Beatrice realizes her error even before she catches sight of the arched eyebrow and the candy-apple smirk.

“Oh, there’s no need to worry, darling,” says Esmé, although her face and her voice strongly suggest otherwise. “Your secret is perfectly safe with me. No one ever needs to know. Just like no one ever needs to know how very, _very_ good you thought I looked spread out over that chaise longue in your dressing room last summer. Remind me,” she muses, and the long, thin finger drifts lower, trailing goosebumps from firm bicep to sharp elbow to delicate wrist before coming to rest not on the gleaming gold band on the bride’s left hand, but on the diamond ring nestled just above it. “Was that before or after dear Bertie proposed?”

The stone feels cold under her fingertip, but when Beatrice jerks her hand away, Esmé is left with a fleeting impression of warm skin. “ _Bertrand_. And this is why you weren’t invited.”

Her phrasing does not escape notice. _Deflecting blame. Creating distance_. It couldn’t be clearer that the other woman would prefer to be having any conversation other than this one, that she’s desperate to look away, but this is one of their competitions now, and Esmé knows Beatrice won’t back down. “Why?” she asks. “Because you don’t like my little nickname for your husband? That’s funny – I wouldn’t have thought you were _nearly_ so petty.”

Esmé’s laconic drawl turns the word _husband_ , which had sounded so sweet and comforting under the chuppah just a few hours before, into something obscene. “That isn’t what I meant, and you know it,” says Beatrice.

“Then tell me what you meant. Admit why you didn’t invite me. It wasn’t my _clothes_ , and it wasn’t my _ethics_ , and for an actress, you really aren’t an especially convincing liar, so go on. Say it.” A sharp edge creeps in beneath Esmé’s artificial sweetness. “Say it, and I promise I’ll leave without a fuss.”

“A fuss?” _She can’t possibly be implying what it sounds like she’s –_

“No one needs to know.” The same words she had used a few minutes before. The same words she had used _that night_ , that same seductive purr. “No one _needs_ to know,” Esmé repeats, “but that hardly guarantees they won’t find out, now, does it?”

Discomfort instantly forgotten, Beatrice takes a half-step toward her. “Is that a threat?”

“Only if it frightens you.”

“There. That’s your answer.” A vein flickers in her neck, and her cheeks are flushed to a shade of pink much more livid than the fading sunset behind her. “ _You_ ,” she pronounces in that brittle tone she uses when she nears a breaking point, “are the sort of person who blackmails a bride at her own wedding. You’re the sort of person who steals an entire tea set from a garden party. You show no regard for anyone other than yourself, and regaress of how much money you have in your accounts, you are bankrupt in every single way that matters. Admitting you into our organization was a _mistake._  Every volunteer in that ballroom knows it, and no one wants to be reminded of their mistakes.” She shakes her head. “Least of all on a happy occasion.”

In the silence that follows, Beatrice becomes acutely aware of three things. The first is her breathing, which sounds ragged in her ears. The second is a distinct chill – the sun has sunk behind the peaks, and her shoulders suddenly feel vulnerable and exposed. The heat of Esmé’s body is the third, and it feels like a warning.

 _Step back_ , it warns her, but Beatrice won’t.

“Still partial to a monologue,” observes Esmé. Seeing Beatrice angry – _making_ her angry – smacks of the most satisfying kind of power; for the moment, that’s enough to take the sting out of her rival’s insults. “One of your better ones. You know, the last time we were alone for this long, you weren’t nearly so talkative. More’s the pity, but then, I suppose your mouth really was…” Dark eyes dart pointedly downward. “Otherwise occupied."

 _Step back_ , but Beatrice doesn’t.

“And that’s precisely why you didn’t invite me, isn’t it? It’s the same reason you’ve barely said five words to me since our little _mistake_ after the cast party.” The distance between them has all but disappeared, and Esmé notes with a surge of self-satisfaction how shallowly the other woman is breathing in her effort to avoid bringing their bodies into contact. “You’re right. No one likes to be reminded of a mistake like that, particularly when they can’t stop thinking about it to begin with. Particularly when they know deep down just how desperate they are to make that very same mistake over” – the lace bodice of Beatrice’s wedding gown rasps against the deep V of exposed skin between Esmé’s lapels – “and over” – the champagne toast lingers on her breath – “and _over_ again.”

 _Step_ **_back_** _,_ but when Beatrice can’t, she opens her mouth instead.

“I won’t kiss you, Esmé.”

“Of course you won’t, darling.” They’re so close now that Beatrice swears she can feel Esmé’s lips forming the words. “But you _want_ to.”

The moment dangles like a loose end. As strains of jazz and laughter drift out through the open windows, mingling with the mountain air, Beatrice wonders with a vague kind of panic just how much of her own reception she’s already missed. Something has to give. She has to move. She has to _do_ something, but a step backward is concession and a step forward is betrayal, and before she can decide which offense is more forgivable, Esmé makes the choice for her, tilting her head and leaning closer. Beatrice’s eyelids flutter shut.

“Enjoy your honeymoon,” Esmé murmurs with triumphant finality into her ear, “ _Mrs._ Baudelaire.”

Beatrice opens her eyes just in time to watch her uninvited guest pass through the French doors, turn away from the ballroom, and disappear down the grand staircase toward points unknown.


End file.
